I covered the windows with dark curtains and turned on a low light. I turned on the Fireplace Channel on TV (don't laugh. It was the best I could do because the switch on our gas fireplace is broken). I curled up with a fuzzy blanket, my dog, a mug of hot chocolate, and Susanna Kearsley's The Shadowy Horses, a favourite no matter how many times I read it. And I just pretended I was in a cabin in the Muskokas, with loons on the lake outside the window instead of mallards in the swimming pool. All I lacked was a candle scented like wood smoke to add authenticity.
And it worked. I'm feeling cozy and restored to myself again. I wrote for an hour or so. Now I'm going back to the couch with my book and dog.
Someday when I'm retired, I will do a lot of this.
The book I'm currently working on is one I'm co-writing with my biologist sister about caring for the earth. It's also a cozy sort of book, and I'm hoping one day some other frazzled woman will find peace curling up with it by the fire.
Writers start young in our family...